Something There is That Doesn't Love A Wall
by Tammany Tiger
Summary: A sequel to *Endless Fall*, though with some ability to stand on its own. This, like the prior story, is a friendship story, which can be seen as Johnlock and Mystrade if you squint carefully, but which isn't about romance, as such.


**This is a sequel to **_**Endless Fall**_**, and like the prior story can be read either as straight friendship/family or as Johnlock and Mystrade if you want to squint right. As with the prior story, the point is that it should be equally valid either way. The two stories aren't about romance, exactly, or about the carnal aspects of love, but about companionship and deep friendship valued for its own sake.**

**.**

**Something There Is That Doesn't Love a Wall**

.

SOMETHING there is that doesn't love a wall,

That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,

And spills the upper boulders in the sun;

And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

Robert Frost, _Mending Fences_

.

John, to his great surprise, was angry.

No. That was too small a word, and too easily seen as passive. Whatever the hell John felt, it wasn't a quiet, silent anger—though he himself was largely silent, unable to properly express it. Inside something was roaring and rattling at cage bars and threatening unholy mayhem and vile rampage.

He had no idea why. He knew the focus: Mycroft Holmes' assassination of the Saudi spymaster and blackmailer, and his own slowly won understanding of the friendship between Mycroft and Greg Lestrade—unstated, unacknowledged, and unconfessed—that had served as the final trigger setting that assassination in motion. The trouble was, he couldn't put his finger on what about it infuriated him.

It wasn't that Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, the consummate bureaucrat in bespoke grey flannel, had committed cold-blooded murder. John, having reviewed all the information available to Sherlock, had come to the rather chipper conclusion that he quite approved of cold-blooded murder in this instance. Some people really did need to be dead, and a few of them were not going to be nailed into a coffin and buried six feet under by going through proper channels. John found it reassuring to know that Mycroft Holmes could, at need, determine the correct targets and occasions, and could furthermore deal with them himself with his usual calm, ordered efficiency. It was nice to know that a man who had quite possibly been his ultimate superior officer during his years of military service knew when to delegate, when not to delegate, and had the skills to manage brilliantly in either case.

He'd never previously quite believed Sherlock's assessment of his brother. "The most dangerous man you've ever met," had seemed a case of Sherlockian hyperbole. Sherlock was all dazzling mind and action—Mycroft, to John, had appeared to be more mind and words. As an educated man, John could appreciate the value of the second; as both a soldier and a doctor—a combat surgeon—he had less use for words than for deeds. Mycroft in a single move had so outstripped any reservations John had retained as to clear the books entirely.

John had a very good idea what it took to kill cleanly, in a single move, then turn and face the music silently, waiting for others to judge. Even the cold-blooded nature of the action met with his approval: he had little place for bloody tossers gone kill-crazy. The underlying passion may have been there, but it was good to know passion didn't rule Mycroft when lives were on the line. So John's final evaluation was simply a silent, but heart-felt, "Good on ya, Mycroft!" and a mental salute that was firm and crisp enough to be offered up on dress parade.

The anger also wasn't a matter of legality. He knew of no one he respected who thought adherence to the law to be the only standard of righteous behavior. Even Lestrade, who was so straight he made straight arrows look like corkscrews, could turn a cheerful blind eye when best-outcome trumped legal procedures. John's own moral compass—which clung tight to true north—was only very little concerned with the law itself. The law was too often an ass for him to worry about it, beyond practical consequences.

It wasn't that Mycroft had, ultimately, walked free because his few superiors had determined that they preferred Mycroft at liberty, in command, and making such decisions, rather than incarcerated for a kill they probably should have required of him themselves. That was what secretive shadow governments were _for_, dammit, and this was one of those times John was reasonably pleased to know what his tax dollars paid for. Sweeping certain actions under the carpet was, in his opinion, a very good investment of labor and revenue in this instance. If John had been the one in charge, Mycroft would not only have walked, but would have been subjected to the embarrassment of a medal or two and a knighthood.

So—none of those were reason for his fury.

He reviewed the other elements in play. He'd known for years that Mycroft was gay. If his own gaydar hadn't alerted him, or Mycroft's own occasional mischievous games with camp excess—part of the older man's constant role play—Sherlock's occasional descent into baiting would have. "God save the Queen" indeed...

The idea that Mycroft might be attracted to someone John knew, personally?

Yes, he thought, that was a bit unnerving, but far from seriously upsetting. It was always a bit off-putting to suddenly correlate the public and private lives of people you knew too well.

He did have to concede the elder Holmes had what even he could see was superb taste. He didn't have to be gay himself to recognize in Lestrade a man anyone inclined toward men in the first place might find attractive, both physically and emotionally.

The fact that so far as he knew, Lestrade was straight?

More complicated, but John wasn't a child. He'd worked side by side with a front-line medic who was gay, and who had been in love him. It wasn't entirely easy for either of them, but they were able to work through it, as friends and as colleagues. Judging by Lestrade's own dedication to Mycroft, John suspected that even if that barrier existed and never fell, it wouldn't be enough to separate the two. Unrequited love could hurt—but John was fairly sure that being best-beloved friend could, under the right circumstances, be enough, if not all either man might dream of. If Mycroft might spend years wishing Lestrade gay, and Lestrade might equally spend years wishing Mycroft female—well...

John, looking at the bewildering tangle of incoherent, non-standardized longings he and Sherlock felt for each other, was hard put to think Mycroft and Lestrade would be any worse off—and possibly better off. He and Sherlock seemed to be pioneering entire new frontiers of ambiguity. "Not gay, likes girls" and "Not my area, married to my work" combined with "definitely a couple" was confusing as hell. John had sometimes wondered forlornly if he could work his way up to bi, with some effort—only to realize that Sherlock would then have to work his own way up to "even remotely sexually responsive." Or, hell, even sensually responsive. And then, God help them both, his flatmate would need to aim for "fit for human company," which in all honesty he wasn't as often as not.

In any case, the possibility of Mycroft and Lestrade walking some strange, unknown tightrope in the liminal spaces between heterosexuality and homosexuality, between romantic love and friendship, wasn't John's problem. Which brought him back around to the one simple question: why the hell he was so angry? It wasn't a little, quiet, back-burner anger. It was a rumbling hair-trigger rage that kept threatening to set him off.

He and Sherlock had already fought about it—repeatedly, starting with Sherlock's absolute refusal to have anything to do with trying to sort it out. That had gone over like ham and shrimp in cream sauce at an Orthodox bar mitzvah.

"My relationship with Mycroft is already tenuous enough without providing him with further reason for annoyance," Sherlock growled, eyes narrow and posture as he sat at his desk somehow hinting at feline outrage. "I've reconciled him to losing my services for anything but rare commissions for his projects. We've resolved my return to public life. I'm not about to intrude on his personal life."

He managed to say, "personal life" as though Mycroft was grotesquely perverse in having even as restrictive a relationship as he shared with Lestrade...which only set John off.

"Are you really that resentful?"

Sherlock's head shot up, and his posture was instantly every bit as perfect as John's when John chose to strike a full military stance. "Resentful? Of what? His pitiful efforts at 'friendship'? He's welcome to whatever he can scrape together after Queen and Country are done savaging his limited charisma."

"That's just what I mean. You can't imagine more for him, can you?"

"He can't imagine more for himself," Sherlock snarled, and refused to talk about it further...then or later. Following attempts on John's part were no more productive, and did not improve the overall atmosphere of the flat. The topic added almost as unsavoury an odor as Sherlock's various biological "experiments."

The one time John had spoken with Mycroft in a situation that justified even wary probes, it had been as though Mycroft were determined to demonstrate exactly why Jim Moriarty had referred to him as the "Iceman." He might as well have been murdered, abandoned on a glacier, and frozen solid for centuries. A mere, "I read the files on the Saudi," apparently warranted eyes cold enough to cause instant hypothermia of the soul, and a very quiet, "Indeed? Access to restricted information, doctor? Is this something I need to know more about?"

To which the only survivable answer was "No." If it had been anyone but Mycroft, John's answer would have been, "No-_**hell**_-no!" Of course, if it had been anyone but Mycroft the threat wouldn't have been as effective, which zeroed the entire thing out in any case.

As for Lestrade? John had tried bringing Mycroft up several times, and while he'd never been frozen out, he'd stopped trying. It felt too much like tormenting a helpless captive. Lestrade was willing to talk about his past association with Mycroft—the repeated rounds spent helping Mycroft shepherd Sherlock through withdrawal. The long discussions trying to decide if standard rehab and therapy was even an option for someone as bright, socially damaged, and stubborn as Sherlock. The years before John had ever arrived, of serving as Mycroft's surrogate—the nearest thing Sherlock would accept to a standard twelve-step coach. What it had been like serving as spotter, safety-net, and "professional" mentor as Sherlock had hesitantly established his role as "consulting detective."

Every word, to John's mind, was like watching the man walk gingerly across crushed glass. And not one word was in the present tense, beyond variations on the simple statement, "He's a good man. I admire him." After a few rounds John ended up feeling that attempts to manoeuvre the man into more would be akin to driving a blind dog into barbed wire.

John tried setting the entire thing aside. There were cases to distract him. He had his blog. There was work at his clinic. Telly, books, movies. The occasional game of rugger with the blokes. A man could keep busy, if he tried, right? And Sherlock was right: it was none of his bloody business in any case. What was he thinking, wanting to meddle in the affairs—or non-affairs—of his elders?

"They're old enough to make their own choices," he told Sherlock, as though it had been Sherlock pushing him to interfere. Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighed melodramatically, and muttered about obsessive-compulsive behaviours, which started a very nice squabble about pots, kettles, and which was the most soot-stained.

They _were_ old enough. Compared to Sherlock and John, Mycroft and Lestrade were shining exemplars of adult control and reason. Two men at the peak of their adulthood—Lestrade actually peering warily over the crest of life into the long, lazy down-slope into his "golden years." John was just adult enough to know that much of the time he and Sherlock were gleefully happy to settle for an eternal thrilling boyhood, chasing bad guys and being best of friends forever. If he hadn't recognized it on his own, that nattering therapist would have pointed it out. He and Sherlock survived because of it, of course... Without it, John thought, angrily, they might have been Mycroft and Lestrade, doing the "right" thing in silent, solitary dignity, instead of the joyful thing and bugger righteousness, silence, solitude, and dignity.

And, yes—there it was again. The anger. The fury.

God, he was angry with them. He could see every single good, responsible, self-sacrificing reason either man might cite for living as they did. The reasons ranged from national security to mutual protection; from respect for each other's sexual and personal choices to concern for each other's professional standing. They were trying so fecking hard to do the right thing...

It made him want to drop-kick them repeatedly through distant goal posts. It made him want to scold them like a doctor scolding an irresponsible patient. It made him want to crack heads together.

No matter how damned confusing and unsettled his life with Sherlock, it was life—not a frozen avoidance of life, all risks set aside and all hopes with them.

And, yes.

That was it. The heart and soul of it.

"I'm going to do something about it," he told Sherlock one afternoon.

Sherlock looked up, brows knit. "What?"

"Mycroft and Greg. I'm going to do something about it."

"Oh, God, not this again," Sherlock drawled. "Can't you leave them be? You said it yourself. They're grownups. Let them choose their own path. It's _not your business._"

John gave Sherlock a slit-eyed glare. "They're both friends of mine. It's my business when either one's making decisions without the full facts."

"Which are?"

John didn't comment. Instead he closed his fist on the little thumb-drive hidden in the pocket of his anorak. He picked up his laptop and left, refusing to be baited into further discussion.

It was a short walk to his favourite pub. Once there he claimed a booth, ordered himself a pint of Newcastle, and set to work.

It didn't take long to extract the critical details of the Saudi's background, methods, and plans to use Lestrade against Mycroft. John did think briefly about the chance of being put on trial for leaking state secrets. Granted, he could have argued that Mycroft's PA had leaked them first—but he was fairly sure Mycroft's PA was bullet-proof. He was equally sure he wasn't.

He found he honestly did not give a rat's ass—to use a phrase well-beloved by the Yank soldiers he'd known in Afghanistan. Lestrade had a right to know what had been done and why, and where he figured into it—and to hell with Sherlock claiming it wasn't John's business, or that Mycroft and Lestrade had a right to walk their own road. Lestrade was picking a road without the full facts—and by extension, so was Mycroft.

Once he'd stripped the information down to a simple, clean skeleton, he attached it to an email, and CCed it to Mycroft, Lestrade, and Sherlock. In the body of the email all he wrote was, "Golden Drake. Meet me. John."

"Rather a waste of an email," Sherlock said, his voice mere inches away. John spun in his seat and peered over the back of the booth. Yes—that was Sherlock, lounging at his ease with his own laptop in front of him.

"You followed me?"

"If you must make trouble, well... if Holmes needs his Watson, it seemed only right that Watson have his Holmes. I suggest we move to the table at the front, though."

"Why?"

"Because I told Mycroft to wait and meet me across the street a half-hour ago, and why, then nipped in before he could get here. He knows what's coming... More or less. At least—he knows you're leaking to Lestrade. I assured him it would be better to wait until I arrived."

John raised a brow, sure there was more.

Sherlock shrugged, and grinned. "Well. It really is for them to work out on their own, isn't it? This way we'll get the perfect ringside seat as they do, won't we?"

John found himself grinning. "You're an evil, evil man, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock smirked, looking more like his brother than he knew. "One can but try."

They slipped into one of the front tables, hidden by the louvered shades.

"My word, he looks cold," Sherlock said, with a gleeful grin.

Mycroft did look cold. Scared, too, John thought, though he wasn't sure anyone would register it who wasn't at least somewhat accustomed to reading Holmesian body language. He was as still and straight as a flagpole, hands tucked into his pockets, a classic black wool scarf lapped neatly within his coat collar. He was hatless, and the chill wind was playing merry hell with his thinning hair.

"How long do you think it will take Greg to read my email and come down?"

Sherlock shrugged. "If he's not on a case? Give him half an hour. If he is? Well, I brought plenty of cash. We don't have to worry about running out of beer. If Mycroft starts looking edgy I'll text him to say I've been held up but am on my way."

"You don't think we should invite him to come in from the cold?"

"Don't be silly," Sherlock said. "That only happens in commercial spy novels. And it's not like the Iceman hasn't earned a bit of frostbite."

Mycroft stood out on the walk, still and silent—vigilant. He didn't even stomp his feet or clutch his hands under his armpits.

"He'd have a great career as one of the guards outside Buckingham Palace if he weren't already the British Government," John said, admiring the resolute stance.

"Ah-ah-ah, here comes our other pigeon," Sherlock said, nodding down the street. "Let's see how soon they spot each other."

Lestrade, dressed as usual in his cheap work suit and his well-worn black mac, had been bowling down the walk, shoulders hunched against the cold, fists shoved deep in his pockets. For a few seconds John thought he'd miss Mycroft entirely, cutting across the road to the pub before spotting the man. But then he glanced up to check ahead of himself for other pedestrians, and froze where he was. John could see the struggle of different emotions play out on his face—frustration, outrage, faint echoes of fear over all the "might have been" outcomes implied by the information John had sent him.

Mycroft stood similarly frozen, face gone so still it was beyond his normal and verging on the uncanny—the more so because it was still, but far from empty or reserved. If John had been required to choose a word to describe the look in Mycroft's eyes, it would have wavered between conviction and dread. Still, he was Mycroft—the chin was high, the posture immaculate. His umbrella hung neatly from his elbow. Only the flutter of his thinning forelock in the wind softened the pristine elegance of Burberry and tailored trousers.

"God," John murmured. "He might as well be facing the firing squad—he couldn't do the 'die with courage and honor' thing better if he were. And without a blindfold or cigarette!"

Lestrade's expression shifted to a blaze of frustrated indignation, and he said something—not in a shout, as John couldn't hear a thing, but, then, he'd heard Lestrade blow off steam before. The man could project quite effectively without having to shout. John had no doubt Mycroft, at least, could hear every word. Whatever Lestrade was saying was having an effect, too—Mycroft actually seemed to sway back an inch or two, for all the world like an animated character facing down a tirade of typhoon proportions.

Sherlock smirked, and giggled. "Forgot Lestrade comes with a policeman's vocabulary."

"You know what he's saying?"

"Something about self-sacrificing morons. With, erm—colourful adjectival invective. And a wide range of words that can be substituted for 'darn' and 'flipping.' Most of which would not be allowed in print. Ah—leading into a new paragraph regarding lack of communications skills and patronizing idiots. He's finishing off with some highly creative suggestions for what fate Mycroft deserves to suffer for being a high-handed jerk."

"Lip reading?"

"Some. But the body language says more, in this case. Lestrade is quite fluent in the choreography of anger."

"You'd know, sunshine—he's angry with you often enough."

"Yes, well—it does give me some experience in translation," Sherlock conceded, cheerfully.

Mycroft waited for the first storm to pass, then drew a breath, and said something in reply, still calm and straight and determined to maintain his bearing.

"Blah-blah-blah, national security, blah-blah-blah, personal responsibility, blah-blah-blah, exposed Lestrade to unnecessary risk, blah-blah-blah, apologies offered but would do again in a split second, without regret." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mycroft at his worst, I'm afraid."

Or his best, John thought, silently. The man was at least willing to face the consequences of his actions—a second time. Judging by his eyes, he wasn't expecting understanding, mercy, or forgiveness.

Lestrade's hands came up from his pockets, and for a half-second he seemed ready to strangle something—anything. His fingers curved into claws, and he clutched empty air and gave an invisible neck an invisible shake, before both hands flew wide in frustration. Even John, with no lip-reading skills, could interpret the signs of a man snarling something like "Arrrrrrgggh, you _idiot!"_

Lestrade paced, one steady step at a time, down the sidewalk. He was shorter than Mycroft, but solid and compact, and there was no question whether he had the training to at least land a solid punch. He stepped closer and closer, entered well into Mycroft's vast personal space, until he was glaring up at the younger man. He said something...

"Wants to know if my brother's going to be a pig-headed moron forever."

"And?"

"Well, Mycroft's honest at least..." Sherlock said, clearly questioning whether honesty was the correct tactic under the circumstances.

Lestrade closed his eyes for a moment in a "Please, God, help me not kill him!" expression. Then he opened them again. One hand came up—and he smacked Mycroft firmly on the forehead with the heel of his hand—a solid, if not too damaging thwap.

Mycroft looked down at him in stunned surprise, met by Lestrade's jut-jawed refusal to back down.

John could see what was coming before the two older men did. So could Sherlock. Without thinking, they started the countdown in unison...

"Three... Two... One..."

Mycroft, of all people, broke first, a slow giggle starting, his mouth squirming to hold back true laughter. Lestrade lasted only a split second longer, before chuckles clearly took over. Before John could ever have imagined, the two were in stitches, laughing until they were nearly weeping, leaning on each other, howling with it, gasping for air. Soon they were holding their ribs, fighting to stop, setting each other off each time they thought they were done. Pedestrians passed by, giving them wide berth, looking at the two middle-aged men giving way to giggling hysteria in the middle of a public footpath. Eventually they came to a slow stop, leaning with hands braced on their own knees, gasping. They exchanged rueful glances, and straightened, tidying themselves, straightening their coats, trying for a pretence of dignity... but the chuckles still kept hitting in tiny little aftershocks, and their shared glances were indeed shared—companionable, affectionate, amused. They stood before each other, calm and at ease.

Grownups, John thought. Men, not boys, for all their laughter. There was a depth of dignity and strength in both men, as they faced each other, that was impressive, even regal.

Lestrade held out a hand, then, offering a standard invitation to shake hands. John watched as Mycroft returned the gesture, and as the handshake morphed in fluid comfort to the male grasped-forearms and they pulled each other into the classic guy-hug seen at holidays and rugby matches, at class reunions and weddings. They stayed that way, in an embrace any two men could get away with—if just barely.

"All right," Sherlock grumbled. "It was a good idea after all. Shall we join them, do you think?"

John considered. It seemed as good a time to break in as any. He pulled himself up and headed for the door, Sherlock close behind him, and swung it wide, stepping out onto the concrete pavers.

Across the street two heads turned; two faces focused on the younger men. In unison, as though rehearsed, they grinned and tossed John and Sherlock the two-fingered salute before cheerfully heading away together, two men out for a walk and a talk, ambling easily down the way.

John studied their backs; the set of their shoulders as they paced along, each by the other; the occasional rising gesture of a hand; the shake of a head; the occasional sign of laughter. The tall, almost lanky ginger leaned toward the shorter, sturdier man with silver hair. They were so clearly companions, together.

"It did work, didn't it?" John asked, feeling Sherlock behind him.

"It worked, you ass. It's all sentimental garbage, you know," Sherlock said—but he said it softly, tugging John's shoulder and leading him back in to finish his ale.

.

**Reprise:**

**.**

SOMETHING there is that doesn't love a wall,

That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,

And spills the upper boulders in the sun;

And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

Robert Frost, _Mending Fences_


End file.
